Page 12 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

His breath hitched as he told himself to behave, and now she was looking up at him with that direct questioning stare.

“Are they watching?” he asked, his voice gravelly. Jings! What was wrong with him? One kiss and he had become a ravening lustful beast.

Agatha shot a quick look over his shoulder. “Not yet,” she said. “We need to try harder.”

Harder? If he got any harder people really would begin to notice! His tight pantaloons left nothing to the imagination. Something about her scent was so enticing that he was thinking ever more lustful thoughts. Donal found he wanted to bury his face in her hair and then kiss his way down to her toes.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles through her glove. Agatha’s eyes widened and she seemed to be holding her breath. He smiled the sort of smile he imagined Belvoir was smiling at Mary, full of desire and want. And lust, oh yes, definitely lust.

“Dear me,” Agatha whispered shakily. “You are far too good at this.”

“You inspire me,” he whispered back.

This time it was she who smiled, and the glow in her eyes made him want to kiss her again. It was a struggle to control the impulse, and if they had been alone he wasn’t sure he would have been able to.

Agatha’s face stilled, and then her smile grew. “They are watching now,” she said in an excited whisper. “Your Mary and my Richard.”

For a moment he was confused, because he had forgotten what this was all about, but then he remembered. It was a plan with the ultimate goal of winning back Mary. Mary who was his one and only love. How had he forgotten that? Flirting so blatantly with Agatha, and behaving in a way he could never remember behaving before, not even with Mary, was for one very important reason.

Donal clasped Agatha’s hands in his and tucked them against his chest, swaying with her. They were not even dancing properly now, just moving to the music. Around them the other guests chatted and laughed, but he hardly noticed. A lock of Agatha’s brown hair had come loose and rested against her pink cheek and he found himself wondering what it would feel like to wind it about his finger. To tug it gently so that she lifted her face to his to enable him to do what he really wanted to do: ravage her mouth.

He swallowed. The situation was getting out of hand. In a moment he would have to excuse himself and find somewhere to cool his passion.

“Oh,” Agatha’s soft gasp brought his attention back to the moment. Donal could feel someone standing at his back. He turned and there was Sir Richard Leslie, staring at him with angry eyes.

“May I cut in?” the other man said with rude abruptness.

Donal wanted to refuse. He opened his mouth to say no and then felt Agatha’s fingers squeezing his urgently. He read the excitement in her eyes. It’s working, she seemed to be saying. He’s jealous!

That was what this was all about, he reminded himself yet again, and stepped away. Then stood and watched as Richard whirled Agatha off among the other dancers.

He knew he should be pleased how quickly their efforts had borne fruit, for Agatha at least, but he wasn’t sure pleased was what he felt. It was perplexing. He caught Agatha’s eye over Richard’s shoulder before her partner turned her and they vanished into the colorful melee. Her eyes were wide and a little shocked, and Donal wondered if she was feeling as perplexed as him.

“Donal?”

That familiar and beloved voice made his heart jump like a fish in a pond. He looked around and Mary was there, gazing at him with an unfamiliar degree of uncertainty. As if she weren’t sure if he was the same Donal, the boy who had declared he would marry her one day, and the man who still felt the same.

“Mary,” he declared with pleasure before he remembered their situation was different now. “Where is Belvoir?” He had seen that smug and unpleasant gentleman earlier, holding Mary’s arm as if he owned her.

“He’s somewhere about,” she said stiffly, refusing to meet his eyes. “I am not chained to him you know.”

Donal tried his best not to look skeptical. He ignored all the things he wanted to say, and instead asked, “Will you dance with me?”

She automatically reached for her dance card before changing her mind and putting it away again. “I think I am supposed to be dancing this dance with a very boring lord, but I shall pretend I forgot and dance with you instead. That will be much more comfortable.”

Comfortable? Was that all Donal was to her now? Someone who didn’t really matter but was comfortable? Why not exciting or amazing? But she had given him an opportunity and he wasn’t about to refuse it. He took her in his arms and they joined in the frolic.

She was smiling up at him, and for a brief moment it felt as if nothing had changed between them, and she was very lovely. So it was strange that a moment later he stumbled and stepped on her toes. She clicked her tongue and shot him a look of exasperation. Donal decided that his clumsiness was her fault and not his—why had her foot suddenly moved in the way of his? He apologized anyway.

You didn’t step on Agatha’s toes, said a teasing voice in his head. Why is it different with her? He quickly shut it off.

“You seem to be enjoying your acquaintance with Miss Kilsyth,” Mary spoke after a lengthening silence. He could tell she was curious. Maybe even a little jealous, which would be flattering. That was the point of this, after all. He had wanted her to think of him as a man who was desired by other women, who was not prepared to sit waiting for her to skip home when she had finished enjoying herself. Or, worse, to choose him only if there was nothing better on offer.

“I am enjoying myself,” he said mildly. “Agatha and I are very compatible.”

Mary appeared to consider this. “She does no’ know you like I do,” she said at last, sounding conceited. “I have known you for years, since we were children. I know your family too, so I think it would be unlikely Miss Kilsyth understands you as well as I do.”

Was that true? Did Mary understand him, really? She had treated him very cavalierly for someone who was supposed to be fond of him. Did she think it wouldn’t matter to him if she hurt him? That he had no feelings? Donal had thought he knew her well too, but seeing her here hobnobbing with London society had made him wonder if he had ever known her at all.